


fill your heart with love today

by DoctorSyntax



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Postpartum Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 19:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7374574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorSyntax/pseuds/DoctorSyntax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-<em>Requiem</em>, Scully and the Lone Gunmen hatch a plan. Key moments in the evolution of a marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fill your heart with love today

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as an excuse to write some cute Scully/Byers + baby, and turned into something completely different.
> 
> For the purposes of this story, please assume Requiem was the series finale (I include some elements from s8, but heavily manipulated to suit my purposes) and William is a totally normal baby. 
> 
> FUN FACT: I wrote the kiss at the end before seeing Existence.

Less than a month after Mulder disappears, Scully sits on the exam table in her OB-GYN’s office and listens to him tell her she’ll need to discontinue fieldwork. It’s the worst possible news she could have heard, and she argues with him for half an hour to no avail.

Deep down, she knows he’s right, but it takes a sleepless night brainstorming loopholes before she can admit it to herself. Careful soul-searching tells her she’s doing the right thing, that she can’t justify endangering her child just to stay on the frontlines in the search for Mulder, but it’s a hard pill to swallow until the moment she realizes this might be a blessing in disguise—something she can twist to her advantage.

“We might be able to lull them into a false sense of security,” she explains to the Gunmen, during her surprise visit the next day. They’re all staring at her with the same expression, like the three bewildered heads of Cerberus, but she presses on. “It might be easier to find Mulder if they don’t realize I’m still looking. I know Skinner will keep me updated, even if I transfer back to Quantico, and I can give you guys that information. Between my inside information and your skills, we stand the best chance of finding him.”

They’re as eager to help as she’d assumed they’d be. Their friendship with Mulder aside, they’ve been great ever since they brought her to the hospital last month, checking in every few days and inviting her over for Taco Tuesday a couple times… not that she’d taken them up on it. Grief brings people together in the strangest of ways—her mother’s friendship with Mulder, forged in the fire of Scully’s own abduction, is a perfect example—but she’s not going to complain about them needing to feel connected to her, not when it only benefits her. Right now she needs people like them on her side.

She gives them a quick run-down of what Kersh’s taskforce has found (a whole lot of nothing) and together they come up with some possible avenues of investigation that the FBI can’t or won’t pursue. Frohike tries to entice her into staying longer with dinner and the opportunity to help them compile a list of the scientific inaccuracies of Pitch Black, which is apparently the kind of thing they do on a Friday night. She can’t really judge—it’s not like she has anything more exciting planned for her weekend—but she declines anyway.

When it’s time to go Byers offers to walk her out, wearing an expression she’s seen many times before. It takes her a minute to place it, but as he opens the six deadbolts on the main door, she realizes it’s the look of a witness who wants to share information but doesn’t think it’s safe to do so.

“Just tell me,” she says, keeping her voice down. She tries to ignore the way her nerves thrum.

“You need a cover,” Byers answers. He’s distracted, watching the other Gunmen out of the corner of his eye—like he doesn’t want them to overhear.

“A cover,” she repeats, and he slips into the hallway behind her. It’s not at all what she expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

Every line of his posture screams discomfort—or is it reluctance? Finally he says, “You need to make them feel like you’ve given up. Leaving the field is a good start, but I think we should figure out a way to make it look like you’ve settled down. Moved on,” he clarifies, when she just stares at him. “Not—not _forgotten_ Mulder, but maybe accepted that he’s not coming back.”

He has her full attention now. He takes a breath, like he’s nervous, and she gets it.

“What’s your ring size?”

*

She’d asked him for a couple days to think about it, but later that night finds her waiting at the entrance to the Lone Gunmen headquarters while someone pops open all the locks.

Byers is on the other side, wearing pajamas and a dressing gown. She wonders if he even owns a t-shirt or jeans. If they go through with it, she supposes she’ll find out.

The thing is, upon further reflection she has trouble believing her plan will work. After seven years, after everything she and Mulder have been through, neither of them has ever truly given up on the other. Their nameless and faceless enemies know that as well as she does. How could They possibly believe she’s willing to give up?

But children change people completely. That’s what everyone says. And this is still her best option.

“Come in,” Byers urges, shutting the door behind her and fastening a couple of the locks. “Is everything okay? We weren’t expecting to see you so soon.”

She glances further in, and can’t see either of the others.

“They’re asleep,” he says, answering her unasked question.

For some reason, she’d assumed the three of them stayed up all night and slept during the day. Which is ridiculous, because almost every time she’s seen them it’s been the middle of the day, but they’re still in some ways total strangers to her. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

He shakes his head, leading her to sit on the couch beside him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

 _Me either_ , she wants to say, but doesn’t. “For this to work,” she starts slowly, “we have to make everyone believe that this is real. Everyone.” Byers nods. “My family, yours, all our friends and coworkers—Frohike and Langly shouldn’t even know, and that’ll take some creative—”

“I already told them,” he interrupts. “They would never have believed it anyway.”

She’s, actually, not surprised in the least. “And what do they think?”

“Langly thinks it’s crazy, as in ‘so crazy it just might work’. And Frohike…” Byers scratches his head, looking sheepish. “Well, he’ll come around.”

“Tell me,” she urges.

She watches him decide how much to share, the way he hesitates before replying. “You know how close he and Mulder are. He’s just concerned this will somehow blow up in our faces.” For a moment she wonders how much he’s holding back before forcibly pushing that thought away. He is entitled to privacy. She needs to learn how to trust him, if this is going to work.

“Well, you’d be sacrificing a lot for me and Mulder,” she reasons, instead of calling him on his diplomatic answer. “What if Suzanne comes to find you, and finds out we’re married?”

His face is impossible to read as he admits, “I did think about that. But my offer still stands.”

She shakes her head a little, not understanding. “Why are you willing to do this?” she asks curiously. It’s… so much. Above and beyond the call of duty, of friendship, of _anything_ —but essential to the scheme as they have planned it.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” is his solemn answer, and the strength of his conviction is like a brand on her soul. “You know it is, Scully.”

His voice is so, so gentle.

“Call me Dana,” she says after a long moment. “We’re going to be married, after all.”

*

She doesn’t want a real ring, tries to look at the cubic zirconia and faux gold at the far end of the jewelry counter. He insists on something real. Small, simple, real.

“I know this isn’t going to be the most traditional of marriages,” he tells her quietly. “But it’s probably the closest either of us will ever get. Let’s do it right.”

Still, he waves away her attempt to have him pick out a ring. “I already have one,” he says, patting his breast pocket.

*

Skinner notices the ring almost immediately after she enters his office Monday. She can see his eyes flick down and then back up to her face. “You wanted to see me, Agent Scully?”

His demeanor is calm, professional. It still takes all of her self-possession to sit in that familiar chair across from him and not squirm under his penetrating gaze.

“Yes, I—I have a few things to tell you, sir,” she answers.

Skinner sits back in his chair, motioning for her to go on.

She takes a breath, wondering where to start. “I’d like to request a transfer out of the field.”

“I’d like to know why, although I think I have an idea.”

For a moment, she considers letting him believe what he wants to believe. But he’ll find out sooner or later. “Due to my age and medical history, my pregnancy is considered high-risk, and my doctor recommends that if I wish to keep working, I cease fieldwork. He, and I, feel that it poses an unnecessary danger.”

His eyebrows shoot up, but his fingers are steepled together. “I see.” She can see his mind working out the etiquette of the situation, and he glances at her hand, now folded in her lap. “May I ask—?”

“I’m also getting married, sir,” she confirms, hoping to spare them both some awkwardness.

He takes off his glasses; the better to see through her lies, she supposes. “To whom?” She can hear the unspoken accusation and she hates him for it, for thinking that she could ever betray Mulder like that. Hates herself for letting him think that. She hopes that one day he’ll know the full truth, but for now half-truths will have to do.

“John Byers,” she answers. “You’ve met him in passing few times when Mulder or I were in the hospital…”

“I know Byers,” he confirms. “He’s a good man, but I never would have thought—”

“We’ve cared for each other for years, and with the baby, we thought—we wanted to—” she sighs, collecting her thoughts. Her head aches. “This child deserves a father and a stable home life. We’re going to give it that. Together.”

He does not ask if Byers is the father. She does not volunteer an answer.

*

She tries to tell her mother without breaking down, and utterly fails.

“He’s not coming back, Mom,” she says, and the words make her sick because they could be true. “I’m so tired. I want a chance at a normal life. John’s a good man.”

“I’m _glad_ , Dana,” her mom says, and it’s only then that she realizes she’d been waiting for disapproval. Projecting her own feelings of guilt onto everyone else in her life. But if they’re buying the lie she’s selling—that Mulder’s lost forever—why _would_ they be angry? Christ, Bill’s probably going to be over the moon.

“Glad?” she repeats, not believing it, wiping tears from her cheek because she has to be stronger if she’s going to get through this. “That I got pregnant out of wedlock and now I’m marrying someone I don’t even love? You’re glad.”

Her mother just smiles, and strokes the top of Scully’s head. “I _mean_ , I’m glad you’re not stubbornly forcing yourself to do this alone just to prove you can. Your dad was at sea the entire time I was pregnant with Missy, and huge chunks of you other kids. I know how hard going it alone can be.”

“I feel like I’m betraying Mulder by doing this,” Scully admits, because there’s nobody else around and that’s what mothers are for. “But I’m scared.”

Her mom reaches out, pulls her against her chest. She feels about five whole years old. “I know, baby. It kills me that Fox can’t be here with you for this. But I know he’s looking down on you. He loved you too much to begrudge you this.”

She wishes she could believe that. She’s so afraid that when he comes back, she won’t be able to make him understand.

*

John moves in a week later, because she’s been surveilled before and it’s important to make the world believe that this is going to be a real marriage. He doesn’t have much stuff, mostly clothes and a small box of sentimental items. The majority of his possessions are joint property of the Lone Gunmen, and stay at headquarters.

He offers to sleep on the couch and she accepts. She makes it halfway through the first week before she wakes him up one night and tells him they’re being ridiculous.

What she doesn’t tell him is that she’d gotten used to sharing a bed with someone this past year, and maybe she’s a little lonely. He doesn’t tell her he’s lonely too. But she can tell.

*

She’d always assumed that she’d enjoy shopping for the baby. She thought she’d love picturing her child in the clothes, imagining it sleeping in the crib while she looked on fondly.

Reality is a little different.

There are too many choices, and everyone has an opinion. It seems cruel of the world to make her choose between five identical-but-different strollers when her back is aching, her hormones are out of control, and her heart is broken. Even stepping inside the store is more daunting than she’d thought it could be, so she steers them over to the clothes, straddling the line between boys’ and girls’. Clothes are safe. Little monkeys, cartoon dinosaurs—

Footed pajamas with a tiny spaceship driven by two green men. She grabs them to show Mulder, turning around with a grin on her face only to remember, abruptly, that he’s _not there_. Mulder’s not there, but John is, and his smile is fading in time with her own.

He opens his mouth but then appears to think better of it. Instead he gently pulls the pajamas out of her grasp, and puts them in the cart. “I have some questions to ask a salesperson,” he tells her, pulling a list out of his pocket. “Why don’t we go find one?”

It’s an obvious distraction, and she is so profoundly grateful for it that she lets him take the lead.

He keeps up an easy dialogue with the associate with a casual arm around Scully. His hand, curled around her lower shoulder, grounds her. His questions speak to a preparedness she hadn’t expected from him—although she’s coming to learn that he is a careful, conscientious man, assuming he’d research baby paraphernalia seemed like a stretch… unless, of course, she missed one very obvious aspect of his personality.

She wonders how long he’s wanted a family. If she’s doing him a favor, too.

If she’s going to break his heart.

No, no. In three weeks he’s going to slip on a ring that the love of his life gave him. He’s been through eleven years of heartbreak; there’s nothing Scully can do to him.

*

They spend the night before the wedding together, although she knows their mothers would prefer they not. She can’t sleep. She’s lying in bed, absently running her fingers over her stomach when she says, “I never imagined I’d be pregnant at my wedding.”

It is a confession she’d only be able to make in the dark.

John shifts, turning on his side to look at her. He takes her hand in his. “I never thought I’d marry someone I didn’t love, but here we are.” It’s not mean, just true. His unflinching honesty is something that she sincerely appreciates about the situation they are in. “If you’ve changed your mind, now is the time to say it. But I still think we’re doing the right thing.”

She looks him in the eye, and doesn’t see anything she doesn’t like.

He is one of the best men she has ever known. She opens her mouth to tell him that but can’t. “You’re right,” she says instead.

*

They get married in her mother’s backyard. There’s less than twenty people there: her family; John’s mother and a cousin; Skinner, Langly, Frohike. Ellen and Trent. John’s wearing what he calls his best suit—it looks exactly like all his other suits, but she appreciates the sentiment—and she has on an admittedly very pretty empire-waist dress her mother picked out, which does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she’s five months pregnant.

She watches John all through the short ceremony, holding each of his hands in her own. They haven’t written special vows. When the priest gets to “You may now kiss the bride,” she’s shocked to find her heartbeat speeding up. John brushes her hair from her face before kissing her, slow and soft. His other hand rests on the swell of her stomach. He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

It hits her: in another life, they could have been so happy together. If she’d never joined the FBI, never been assigned to the X Files, never met Mulder; if they’d met at some conference or convention, there would have been nothing to stop them from falling in love.

*

Obviously, she can’t drink at her own wedding, and in unrequested solidarity John doesn’t either, but the good cheer of her tipsy guests imbues the air, and Scully, with a similar lightness. They haven’t bothered with a sit-down lunch, but there’s food under one tent and a rented dancefloor in another. Charlie had assigned himself DJ duty weeks ago, to their mother’s delight and Scully’s despair.

They’d decided not to observe most of the wedding traditions, but John had requested a mother-son dance. Scully doesn’t recognize the song, but the lyrics are sweet. Mrs. Byers lives in southern Virginia and they probably don’t see each other much, but they seem to have an easy, affectionate relationship if the laughter coming from the dance floor is any indication.

“If you want to know how a man will treat his wife, look at how he treats his mother,” her mom says, coming up behind Scully as she watches them.

“Guess I lucked out,” she answers.

“Guess so,” her mom replies, and holds out a hand. “Come on, let’s join them. I know your dad would be disappointed if you missed this.”

*

Once she’s out on the dance floor, her guests seem to conspire to keep her there.

She dances with Frohike, twice, although neither time is a tango. He reminds her that she hasn’t signed the wedding license yet, and that it’s not too late to switch grooms. She just smiles. She knows he’d given John a lot of trouble—good-natured and otherwise—in the beginning, but for the most part he’d spared her.

Charlie intercepts her when “Melissa” by the Allman Brothers Band comes on; she’d been certain he was going to play it but the lyrics still hit her with a wave of emotion. “Jerk,” she whispers, trying not to tear up.

“Love you too, big sis,” he says, and holds her close.

Even Skinner takes her for a spin around the floor. He’s a surprisingly adept dancer.

“This is a good look for you, Dana,” he tells her. Without his glasses on, he looks less like her former boss and more like her friend.

She can’t help it; she smiles. “What, barefoot and pregnant?” she kids, although she’s not barefoot. Even if they make her feet ache, she’ll give up her heels when she dies.

“Happy,” he corrects. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile this much.”

She considers this for a moment, but doesn’t answer. There’s a lot she could say to that—it’s her wedding day; she’s different around her family; she’s not dying of cancer—but Skinner knows all of those things, so what’s the point? When the song is over she kisses his cheek. “Thanks for the dance, Skinman.”

The final song of the afternoon is “God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys, which she knows for a fact is Charlie and Miranda’s “first dance song,” and therefore cheating—leave it to Charlie to use her wedding as an excuse to romance his wife. But it’s slow, and easy to dance to, and she ends up in the arms of her new husband.

She likes to think later that she got caught up in the music, that the romantic song and her second trimester hormones conspired to drive her slightly crazy, and maybe it’s true. “Want to get out of here?” she whispers toward the end, and she can see pure lust, then agonizing indecision in John’s eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes, “but—I don’t want to be rude.”

She laughs quietly. “They’d think it was weird if we didn’t. Come on.” She shifts a little so one of her legs is between his, and applies gentle pressure.

His eyes go wide, like he wasn’t expecting it. He probably wasn’t, bless his heart, even though it’s plainly obvious he wanted it. “We don’t have to—not just because we’re married.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be stupid.” She feels as reckless as the night she got her tattoo. “I want to.”

*

The minute John closes the front door behind them, she pushes him against the wall. Not roughly—all it takes is a fingertip against his chest and he lets her lead him wherever she wants him to go.

He’s touching her so carefully—light, fluttering touches, like he’s still not sure she wants him to. His hesitancy is sweet because she can tell it’s borne of a desire not to take advantage of her.

She, by sharp contrast, wants to devour him.

He doesn’t seem nervous. Just cautious. Attentive in a way that doesn’t make her feel like he’s analyzing her every move—just looking for the right reactions. His hand is warm against her cheek as he pulls his head away, searching her eyes. “Are you sure it’s okay to do this?”

“My doctor okayed it weeks ago, as long as we keep pressure off my abdomen.”

“Weeks ago, huh?” It’s the closest he’s ever come to teasing her, and she likes it.

“He volunteered the information,” she sniffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

She’s expecting him to laugh and talk back. She’s not expecting him to give her a soft smile and pull her in for another kiss. His careful hands thread through her hair, keeping her close to him. “I want to see your face,” he murmurs against her lips. “I want to be able to watch you while I’m inside you. I want to know what you look like when you come.”

If she wasn’t wet already, she would be now. “Bedroom,” she says breathlessly. “Now.”

*

Later that night, they’re lying in bed when she feels the baby begin kicking, stronger than any movement she’s felt yet. Without thinking she grabs John’s hand and places it on her stomach, knowing that he will want to feel this.

“Wow,” he says, voice soft. “That’s really something.”

She hums in agreement. “He’s moving around a lot tonight.”

John’s head comes up to stare at her. “He?”

She could lie, but what’s the use? “He,” she confirms, and feels a sudden rush of fondness at the way his face lights up, if only because she knows he’d have reacted exactly the same upon hearing the baby was a girl. His hand, still resting on her abdomen, begins moving in sporadic circles, rubbing gently.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to call him?”

What _we’re_ going to call him, she wants to say, but bites her tongue. “I thought William, after mine and Mulder’s fathers. It’s Mulder’s middle name, too. I want my son to have something of his father.”

“He’s not going to have his last name?”

She shakes her head. She doesn’t know how to articulate why she can’t bear the thought of this. How the thought of her son’s kindergarten teacher unknowingly calling her ‘Mrs. Mulder’ makes her break out in a cold sweat. “Scully. It’ll be easier.”

He takes a steadying breath, but his voice still shakes. “He can be a Byers, if that’s—if you want that. I’d be happy to give him that.”

She recognizes it for the gesture it is, and is touched. “That’s very kind of you,” she says. “But you’ve already given so much.”

“No trouble,” he insists.

She places a hand on his arm, stilling his movements. “Thank you,” she says, looking him straight in the eye. “But I’ve decided.”

He doesn’t mention baby names again.

*

Most Saturday mornings, Skinner comes by with the latest updates from the taskforce in charge of finding Mulder. She makes them tea and they pore over evidence spread across her coffee table, comparing the leads each of them has gathered since their last meeting. He acts like he isn’t checking up on her health, keeping a careful eye on the progression of her pregnancy, and she lets him as long as he keeps up the ruse. Most of his visits turn into social calls anyway.

She’s at the end of her second trimester when it happens. This Saturday Skinner looks extremely uncomfortable in her home, such a change from seven days ago. She can tell by his body language—he’s hunching in a little, like he wants to make himself smaller—that he’s come to tell her something terrible. She mutters something about the tea and flees to the kitchen. It gives her a few much-needed minutes to collect herself.

By the time she gets back to the living room with the mugs, she has her poker face on, and there’s an envelope on the coffee table. He hasn’t taken off his overcoat.

“What’s this?” she asks.

Skinner can barely meet her eye. “It’s—we found a new lead, a Visa under one of the aliases you provided last week. There were several recurring charges for rental cars in the months leading up to Mulder’s… disappearance.”

She sets down her mug and picks up the envelope, unfastening the clasp with trembling fingers. She doesn’t lift the flap. “And?”

“From what we can tell, he was, ah, putting his affairs in order.”

She’s not sure if she doesn’t understand, or if she doesn’t want to understand. “Walter, are you telling me he’s—?” Her voice cracks a little. She can’t finish that thought. She can’t.

“No,” Skinner interrupts. “Still missing. But—” he sighs. “He was sick, Dana. I think you should look at what’s in the envelope.”

On top is a photograph of a tombstone she recognizes from Mulder’s parents’ funerals. Below their names is Samantha’s, which she knows Mulder added last year, and… Mulder’s own name. She can barely believe her eyes, but there it is: **FOX MULDER 1961 – 2000** , freshly carved into the marble.

The next two pictures are brain scans, followed by his medical records for the last year. The decline of his health is clearly charted over the course of ten months. He was dying. He knew he was dying, and he never saw fit to mention it.

She covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh my god, Mulder,” she whispers. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She runs through every trailed-off sentence, every conversation that seemed to end up somewhere other than where it started, from the past year, cataloguing the moments Mulder might have tried to tell her…

But she knows why he never did. If she’d known, she’d have chosen a different donor for William. She thinks of a hotel room in Oregon, Mulder draped around her as she fought back nausea, one possessive hand resting on her stomach. Both of them thinking that maybe she wasn’t sick after all but neither daring to suggest it. She’s sure he saw this—giving her the thing she wanted most in the world—as one final act to make up for all the suffering he’s ever caused her, too blind to see that carrying his child without him here would be, and is, her actual worst nightmare.

“There’s more,” Skinner says gently. Her eyes fly up to meet his. He looks so reluctant—but what could he possibly have to say that’s worse than this? “The ASAC and Kersh are using this as justification to end the search for him. They’ve had his medical records reviewed by several specialists and all of them agree that Agent Mulder would have died sometime in the last few months. Under those circumstances, the FBI sees no reason to continue the search. The case is being closed as missing, presumed dead.”

She chokes back tears. She doesn’t want to cry in front of him, though she knows he wouldn’t be surprised. “What if… what if the records were faked somehow?”

“We have sworn testimony from each doctor they consulted. Kersh insisted on it—I think he’s a little afraid of you.”

He means it to lighten the mood a little, but all it does is make her feel like she’s failed Mulder. If she was there, on that task force, maybe she could have stopped this. Maybe he’d even already be found. And instead she’s, what? Teaching pathology at Quantico and letting the men handle it?

She gets up, intending to see Skinner to the door, but ends up doubling over in pain as soon as she stands. Skinner is by her side immediately.

“What’s wrong? Dana?” His hand is gentle and tentative on her back.

“Hospital,” she grits out. It’s all she can manage.

*

At the hospital, they run a barrage of tests and discover she’s had a partial abruption, which, although not ideal, is not life-threatening. Her doctor, erring on the side of caution, wants to keep her a few days for observation and then send her home for bedrest. Several times she opens her mouth to protest—doctors make the worst patients, and she’s no exception—but each time she finds her voice refusing to work. She’s paralyzed with the fear that she could lose this baby, her last connection to Mulder.

So home is where she goes. Each morning before he leaves, John sets her up on bed with mountain of pillows, her one permitted cup of half-caf coffee for the day, and her laptop perched on a C-shaped table. She spends her time trawling through haystacks of data and information, hoping to find the needle that will bring her son’s father home.

*

Production day at The Lone Gunman falls on the day of one of her regular checkups, so her mother comes by before John goes in to help put the issue together. Her mother would be there every day if Scully let her, but as it turns out, this was the day Scully really needed her: a couple hours before the actual appointment, she starts having the same abdominal pains she did two months ago.

“Any chance it’s just labor? A contraction?” her mother asks—hovering slightly—because it’s only eleven days to her due date, but Scully shakes her head. There’s no mistaking this pain.

At the hospital her doctor confirms that the abruption in worsening, and tells her he wants to induce labor. It’s the safest course of action, he soothes, thinking she’s upset. Should he have someone telephone the father?

By the time John gets there she’s at almost four centimeters, and he kisses her, briefly, then tells her he’ll be just outside if she needs him. (He looks even more nervous than she feels. It would be endearing if she wasn’t so focused on the task at hand.)

Her mother raises an eyebrow after he leaves. “Not staying in the room?”

Scully shakes her head. “Too squeamish.” Maybe he is, maybe he doesn’t think it’s his place; she doesn’t care, too overwhelmed with relief that she didn’t have to kick him out herself. To tell him that the delivery room is a right reserved for family would be cruel in the face of all that he’s done and all that he’s going to do. She never imagined the depth of what he would do for them or how radically he would change his life to fit into theirs.

Shame plagues her for not knowing how to overcome the wish that Mulder were here instead.

*

The first time John holds William, cradling him gently while a nurse adjusts his arms, the unconditional love on his face knocks the breath out of Scully. “He’s so tiny,” he whispers in awe.

Right about now is when Mulder would have pretended to drop him. John kisses his forehead, instead.

She holds it together until John leaves, and then cries for what should have been.

*

_Announcing with love the birth of_  
_**William Fitzgerald Scully** _  
**__**7lb 4oz, 17in  
_Born May 20, 2001 at 5:01p.m. to_  
_Dana Katherine Scully, Fox William Mulder (dec.) and John Fitzgerald Byers_

*

The day they bring William home, John hands her a long, rectangular velvet box. “It’s traditional to give the mother a gift.”

“Is it?” she asks, trying to remember if she’d ever heard that before.

He quirks his mouth, shrugging. “Maybe just in my family, I don’t know. But you deserve it.”

The hinges on the box creak as she opens it. Inside is a thin gold necklace with no charm. “For your rings,” he explains. “When you go back to work, I want you to have somewhere to keep them while you’re doing autopsies.”

It’s an incredibly thoughtful gift. Before she went on maternity leave, she used to put them in her pocket, but she was always afraid she’d lose them. She can’t remember if she ever mentioned that to him.

She pulls the necklace out of the box, slipping it over her head. The chain is long, falling just below her sternum. The warmth and weight of the rings will rest right by her heart.

*

One night when she's comforting the baby John comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. William’s one week old and she sleeps an average of three non-consecutive hours a day. Asleep on her feet, for split-second she thinks that it's Mulder there, and leans into the touch with a contented sigh. “Missed you,” she confesses, and he chuckles.

“It’s been five minutes,” John says. Her heart sinks, reality a heavy stone coming to rest in her stomach. It takes everything she has not to flinch away from his touch, because he doesn’t deserve that.

He kisses her cheek and she wants to cry. He doesn’t let go and she never wants him to. Her heart aches, like it’s being torn in two.

*

She loves her son. She does. She used to thank God every day that the final round of IVF took, because she can’t imagine how she would have coped if it hadn’t. But sometimes she curses her choice to have Mulder as the biological father—even though, as her lover, he was the obvious choice. The only choice.

It’s just, William looks _so much_ like him and never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that would be a hardship. On bad days, she can barely look at William without being reminded of what she’s lost. On better days, she can’t bear to have him out of her sight, afraid that if she looks away for a moment, he’ll disappear the way Mulder did.

There are no good days. She tells herself it’s a phase: the baby blues. William will get older and look less like Mulder. She’ll be able to sleep more and won’t feel so frazzled. Her hormones will readjust to normal levels and she won’t spend 75% of her time feeling like she’s about to burst into tears.

It’s going to get better. It has to.

*

One night, she can’t get William to latch for the life of her. He’s screaming because he’s hungry, but he won’t eat.

“I know, baby,” she says, trying not to cry with him, and failing. “I know. It probably doesn’t taste very good. I’m sorry. I know I should eat better; I have to take better care of you. I miss your daddy, and you’re the one getting punished for it.”

She doesn’t notice John until he’s gently pulling William from her arms. “I got this,” he says, rubbing William’s back, making soothing noises at the baby. She wipes her face with the sleeve of her robe, reaching for William.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, “you can’t feed him.” She’s embarrassed, furious, and William’s still crying. Still hungry. What a mother she is.

“There’s formula in the fridge from when you suspected he was lactose intolerant,” John reminds her in his infuriatingly calm tone. Like she’s the baby that needs placating, here. “I’ll give him that. I want you to get some sleep.”

She frowns, ready to argue, but he’s walking out of the room without waiting for an answer. And she’s too exhausted to get up, too exhausted to do anything but cover up and pull her robe tight around her body.

She dozes, but not for very long, and when she wakes she goes straight to the kitchen. John’s leaning against the counter; he looks completely at ease feeding William, who’s enjoying the last of his bottle.

Great. So it’s just Scully William won’t eat for. Just Scully he hates. Loves John the most and John’s not even his real father—dammit. She’s going to cry again if she keeps thinking like this.

She opens her mouth but John shakes his head as if to say _not now_ , then glances down at William, who’s milk-drunk and dead to the world. He slips out of the kitchen, presumably to put William down, and returns a few minutes later, baby-free.

She doesn’t know anymore what she wanted to say. Finally, John breaks the silence, although he’s speaking in hushed tones. “I thought you were going to get some sleep.”

“I wasn’t tired.” She knows he knows she’s lying.

He presses on. Damn him. “I want you—us—to talk to someone.”

“That’s not necessary. I’m fine,” she tells him as authoritatively as she can manage, desperate for him to drop it.

“No, you’re not,” he counters.

She blinks, because she hadn’t expected an argument. She’s so used to _I’m fine_ being the end of the conversation with Mulder that it never occurred to her it wouldn’t work now. “Yes, I am,” she manages, but she’s so off-guard it doesn’t come out convincingly.

He’s shaking his head. She wishes his eyes were a little less earnest, but he wouldn’t be himself if they were. “You never smile anymore, I can barely get you to eat, you almost never sleep, and you keep acting like there’s nothing I can do to help with William. This is the fourth time this week that I’ve caught you crying. I’m not going to back out of the room and pretend it’s not happening anymore.”

“Are you keeping a _list_ of all the ways I’m a failure as a mother?” she hisses, astonished by his last point. The number seems so large—how could he see her crying so many times without her once realizing he was there? Is the fog she’s in that thick?—but simultaneously not very large at all when she thinks about the number of times in the past week her emotions have gotten the better of her.

“And that’s another thing!” he says, seizing onto her words. “You make these comments, like you’re the worst mother who ever lived, but you’re not. This is textbook post-partum depression, Dana.”

She hates him. “Don’t you lecture me! I am a medical doctor; I am perfectly qualified to recognize the symptoms of post-partum depression, and—”

“You’re too close to it to see,” John interrupts, voice rising slightly. “You’ve been under so much stress since Mulder disappeared, you’re so used to it that you can’t even see how bad it’s gotten, but I need you to believe me when I say that it’s not okay anymore. I can’t step back and let you become a danger to yourself and to William.”

“ _You’re_ not going to let that happen?” Her voice drips disdain. Distantly, she is aware that she is being unfair to him. She’s also aware that she doesn’t give a damn. “Just who do you think you are?”

“I’m your husband!” he shouts, patience gone. She’s never seen him like this before—like he’s invested. “I’m William’s stepfather! I have a say in this family!”

“How dare you—you have no idea what I’m going through!”

He takes a step back. She may as well have slapped him. As he’s struggling to compose himself, she notices for the first time how there’s a burp pad still slung over his shoulder, and it cuts her off at the knees.

When John speaks again, his voice is lower but no less firm. “We have a responsibility to Mulder, to take care of our baby, and I’m not going to let our grief get in the way of that. We need to get help.”

In the nursery, William is shrieking his strange, hiccupping baby cry. She can’t handle all of this at once. She goes to leave the kitchen, but John catches her by the arm.

“Dana, we only scared him. I can take care of it. You need to let me help.”

Back to responsibility. Obligation. It’s like all the proprietary emotion she’d sensed in him moments ago has disappeared, but most of her is relieved and she carefully ignores the small part that isn’t. Duty is something she can handle.

*

She argues with a therapist twice a week—once with John, once without. She does breathing exercises when she feels overwhelmed, which is most of the time. They get a white noise machine for the bedroom to help her sleep.

It all seems so futile, like so many band-aids on a gaping wound, but each day the blood clots a little more.

They practice her letting go of control over every aspect of William’s life. She starts pumping breastmilk so John can feed William a few times a day and she can sleep longer. When they’ve accumulated enough to accommodate several feedings, he takes William with him to the Gunmen for the day. There’s a crib there, identical to the one at home, and she knows Langly has developed a poorly-hidden soft spot for the baby. Intellectually she is aware that William is safe there, but when he’s out of her sight like that she gets unfocused, restless.

John picks up for all of her calls but refuses any request that he bring William home early.

The therapist tells her she needs to confront her grief over Mulder, so once a week she bundles William into his car seat and drives to the Mulder family grave in Virginia. They sit by a grave Mulder’s not in and she tells her son about his father, doing her level best to use the past tense even though it goes against everything she believes. Sometimes she cries, and then William cries too, and she drives home feeling like a terrible person for doing this to her child.

“You’re doing the best you can under difficult circumstances,” John reminds her. She thinks he read it somewhere, but it makes her feel a little better anyway.

*

Six weeks after William is born, they drive down to Newport News to visit John’s mother. It’s a long trip, nearly three hours, so when they get there John excuses himself to the bathroom. His mother kisses Scully’s cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world, then unbuckles William from his carrier. Scully watches her hold him, and tries to tamp down her fears about him being in the arms of someone she barely knows.

“I want to say thank you,” John’s mother starts, and Scully has no idea where this conversation is going. It’s the first time they’ve been together without someone else as a buffer—William hardly counts. “John will never tell you, but he was so thrilled with the birth announcement.”

Scully shifts uncomfortably. “It was the right thing to do.” They say that so much, the two of them. But it’s true every time.

“Nobody would have argued if you left him out entirely,” John’s mother continues. “He’s not the biological father. And his middle name—” she breaks off with a sigh. “I just don’t think you realize how much it means to him.”

She’d known John was pleased—that he accepts it as her unspoken apology for keeping him at an arm’s length for too long. Anyone with eyes can see that John loves William and cares about their hodgepodge little family, but his mother is making it sound like it somehow goes beyond that. But then again, his mother thinks their marriage is real.

It’s both reassuring and disconcerting to know that they have fooled their closest relatives.

“He’s going to be the only father William ever knows,” she says as lightly as she can manage, hating herself because no matter what she tells her therapist or her mother or anyone else, she still believes Mulder is alive. “It wouldn’t have been right to leave him out.”

*

Toward the end of the visit, John’s mother gives them (another) gift—a light blue onesie with a penguin wearing ice skates on the front. “I saw it in the store the other day, and I just couldn’t resist,” she explains, when John seems inordinately delighted by it. “How long until you start teaching my grandson how to skate?”

John’s answer is so prompt, it’s clear he’s thought about it before. “As soon as he can walk unassisted. We’ll get him some skates and a walker and a helmet, and I’ll take him through the Basic Eights myself. If he likes it, we’ll go from there.”

Scully’s never heard him talk about William like that, like he has his own plans and dreams for the baby. But, clearly, he has.

His mother nods approvingly. “I’d like to help, if you don’t mind.”

He taps his chin, pretending to think about it. “That depends. Think you can keep up?”

“Watch it,” she warns, poking him in the side. “I’m still your mother, and—”

“…And you taught me everything I know,” John finishes, fond. He squeezes her hand. “I’d love for you to help, Mom.”

It’s like Scully is on the outside looking in. This side of John is something that she’s been seeing more and more often lately, but never directed at anyone but her. It feels like a revelation, some truth she doesn’t want to know right now. “I never realized you were such good skaters,” she comments, to distract herself, and his mother’s eyes light up.

“Now you’ve done it,” John groans, turning a gratifying shade of pink. His mother is already up, grabbing a photo album from a nearby bookshelf that turns out to be entirely dedicated to John’s skating. For the next twenty minutes she regales Scully with stories of the auspicious career of John F. Byers, bronze medalist in Novice Men’s Singles at the 1975 North Atlantic Regionals.

“The soaring heights of my early teens, never to be achieved again,” he jokes, clearly embarrassed. “Mom, can you not?”

“Nonsense,” his mother says. “She’s your wife. I’m surprised she doesn’t already know.”

There’s a lot she doesn’t know.

“Maybe if we start William young enough, he’ll be able to beat his father’s record,” Scully teases, and only realizes what she’s said when she catches sight of John’s face, soft around the eyes and so bashfully pleased.

She mumbles an excuse and locks herself into the bathroom, counting her inhales and exhales until she no longer feels like she’s choking on guilt. She stares at herself in the mirror and reminds herself what the therapist said. It’s okay to be confused. It’s okay to acknowledge the different contributions they made. John and Mulder are different people, and in different ways, they both parent her son. It’s all okay.

*

She’d used a chunk of her FMLA leave when she was on bedrest prior to William’s birth, so barely seven weeks after he’s born she has to go back to Quantico. The night before, she hears William fussing and moves to get up, but John puts a hand on her back and says, “I’ll get him. I’ve got him tonight. Sleep.”

But she can’t sleep. She tries. William calms quickly, but she lies awake listening anyway. After a few minutes she gets up, slipping quietly into the baby’s room.

John’s in the rocking chair, not rocking, just watching William drool on his dressing gown. She looks at the way he holds William, cradling his head as William sleeps against his chest. She loves how much he loves their child.

He glances up as she enters the room, nodding at her. She kneels down beside them and kisses William’s forehead, then looks up to see John staring at her. His expression is unreadable. She shifts to kiss his lips, William held between their bodies. Her eyes close, so she can't see his reaction, but he does kiss back. It’s their first since William was born.

“Go back to sleep,” John whispers after she moves away. It doesn’t sound like rejection. She nods, stroking her thumb against William’s cheek, and goes.

*

The next morning, John’s already awake, dressed, and in the kitchen when she gets up for work. He hands her a mug of coffee and says conversationally, “I love you, you know.”

She freezes while blowing on her coffee. She brings her eyes up to meet his, and sees a sincerity that belies his tone.

“I didn’t notice it happening because I hadn’t thought it was possible, but I don’t want to lie to myself anymore. And I don’t expect you to return the sentiment,” he continues, voice calm, rehearsed. His hands are shaking, but not enough to spill his coffee. She forces herself to look him in the eye again and almost wishes she hadn’t when the depth of feeling there stuns her. “You don’t owe me anything. But I can’t kiss you, or—or be intimate with you, knowing that I’m not the person you really want to be with. I hope that you can respect that.”

She eases the mug out of his hand. Puts it on the counter alongside hers.

“Dana?” he asks, and she grabs his lapels and kisses him.

*

The Georgetown section of the C&O Canal towpath is picturesque in the early evening, especially now, at the tail end of summer. It was one of the places Scully’s therapist had suggested when she stressed the importance of exercise in combating post-partum depression, and it’s not hard to see why.

Her mother’s at the apartment, delighted to get some alone time with her grandson. John’s beside Scully with her hand in his. Initially she’d thought he arranged this to get her alone, force her to talk to him, but this morning’s confession has apparently been forgotten. He seems content to enjoy the walk, enjoy the weather, enjoy her company.

Even though her mother practically pushed them out and slammed the door in their face, Scully still has to remind herself twice that it’s not an imposition to ask for help, and not a failure to need time away from the baby. She forces herself to think about how happy her mom looked holding William. The clench in her chest eases some, and gives her courage for her next move.

“I still… love him,” she clarifies, picking up their conversation from the morning, because communication is important. She and Mulder were never good at it, but she thinks she and John will be better. “I’ll always love him. But you’re you. I know the difference.” She squeezes his hand, as if it will emphasize her point.

This is John, who gave William an old stuffed bear that he insists is called Gentle Ben. John, who bought infant shoes and didn’t mind that she laughed at him for it. John, who has a dog-eared book called _When Someone You Love Has PPD_ on the nightstand.

John, who looked her straight in the eye this morning with a love he never thought she’d be capable of returning, and told her about it anyway.

“Honestly,” he says, “that’s more than I ever hoped for.” He’s quiet for a moment, then adds, “I meant it this morning, when I said you don’t owe me anything. When we find Mulder, I’ll back off.” He doesn’t sound happy with the prospect, but she knows he’ll be true to his word.

“We’ll talk about that when the time comes,” she answers, surprising herself. She examines the statement and finds that she truly means it.

They stop walking. John places a finger beneath her chin, tips her head up to look at him. “For a long time, I was so afraid of loss that I wouldn’t allow myself the things I wanted. If I didn’t have it, then it couldn’t be taken away from me.” She has an idea of where he’s going with this, but can’t speak. “I never realized how much I was missing. Please, whatever happens with us, and Mulder—just promise me you’ll let me be a part of William’s life.”

It is the easiest promise she has ever made him.

*

When William is seven months old, John coaxes Scully into letting him take William ice skating. She makes him skate the first few minutes on his own to prove that he still knows how, and he indulges her with leisurely stroking and crossovers, making faces at William every time he passes the two of them standing by the boards.

“Keep going,” she calls as he passes them for the fourth time, even though she’s satisfied. With impossible ease he turns so that he is skating backward, gliding on just one foot for almost the entire length of the ice. Better that he gets the urge to be fancy out of his system now, before he has their son out there with him.

“Do a trick!” she heckles when he gets within earshot again. He rolls his eyes but then complies, executing a sequence of footwork and simple moves—things she’d never be able to do but suspects a talented child could. When he gets back to them, he stops suddenly, like a hockey player, spraying her and William with ice shavings.

William _shrieks_ with delight.

“I’m not a performing monkey,” John says mildly, and she bursts out laughing.

“Okay, Michael Weiss. Get out here.”

Together they fasten William securely against John’s chest in his carrier, and then with her heart in her throat, Scully watches them skate back out onto the ice. It’s not so much John she’s worried about—his movements are slow, steady, and sure—but she spends a couple minutes glaring daggers at everyone who skates past them, expecting this person to be the one that collides with them, or trips John, or some other barely-plausible disaster scenario that keeps her adrenaline rushing.

“Stop worrying,” John calls as he glides past, like her anxiety was a tangible presence he could feel from the other side of the rink. He’s out of earshot before she can respond.

“Look how happy Wills is,” he says the next time he comes around.

It’s true. William, her happy baby, can’t stop giggling. He also can’t stop squirming, and she’s probably going to have a coronary. Why John thought focusing on William would calm her down, she’s not sure.

But she does relax. Gradually, in increments, she stops white-knuckling the boards. Her heartbeat returns to normal levels. She watches her son and her husband, with identical wind-reddened cheeks, glide around the rink as their palpable delight slowly infects her.

And she is thankful. To Mulder, for giving her the most beautiful gift one person can give another: their child. She is thankful for William, her miracle. For John, who gave without expectation and who never gave up on their family. But above all, she is thankful for her own strength, for finding a way to let someone in when her grief and pain wanted nothing more than to shut him out. This isn’t the life she expected, but it is a good one, and she is content in a way she never thought she’d experience again.

When her phone rings, she answers without looking at who it is, not wanting to take her eyes off the sight in front of her—she’s waited so long for this quiet, powerful feeling of peace that she wants to soak in each second. “Scully,” she says, trying and failing to re-focus her attention to the call.

“Scully.” It’s Skinner. He sounds… troubled, which makes her pulse quicken. Skinner calls her Agent Scully when they’re at work, and Dana when they’re not. Plain ‘Scully’ is reserved for when he needs a compromise; when work and her personal life bleed together. “I need you to come right away. It’s about Mulder.”


End file.
